The metal door in itself wasn’t interesting — black metal, iron-banded, marbled with rust. Its location, however, was a different matter. For ‘up there’ was about twenty paces above Ember’s head. No steps leading up to it. No ladder with which to reach it.
“How in the Seven Hells are we going to get up there?” Ember said.
“Throw a rope up?” suggested Junn.
Hannar-Ghan tutted. “And attach it to what, genius?”
“Hey,” whined the young caster. “It was just a suggestion. If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it!”
“How about we don’t follow Cobb’s dumb plan.” The Sergeant slammed the butt of his lance onto the ground and leaned on it. “We turn around and we head back towards the gate, just like I said. Just like I’ve been saying all along.” He shook his head, sadly. “I don't like this place. We should never have come.”
“That's enough.” Roon-Kotke shoved his way between the two casters. “Rakou’s balls! You're acting like a bunch of children. Let's think about this. What’s the ‘why’? Why is there a door halfway up the side of this wall? Why isn’t there an obvious way up to it?”
Ember stared up at the door. “Maybe the Kajjon dropped a ladder down from the inside?” (Although if that were true, they’d never be able to reach it.)
Junn stared up at the door. “Or they flew up?”
Ember sighed. “How many times, Junn? There are no flying bindings!”
“They used an air bridge,” said Lor, as if the answer had been obvious all along. “Got to be. That’s the only explanation for this door. Its positioning. Its orientation… It must be like the underwater tunnel we found in gate nineteen. And if I’m right, we’re going find another door at the top of that tower Ember spotted, and some sort mechanism to conjure a walkway. Like the Hierin Bridge, but on a much smaller scale.”
“The tower?” Roon-Kotke looked towards the top of the stone turret. “That means going into the trees.”
“Yes.” The combat-tech looked nervously at the forest. “That thought doesn’t exactly thrill me. But if we want to have a chance of getting inside this fortress, that tower is where I believe we need to go. Besides, we’re casters. We’ve got Ampa and Fura. Walls and Sanctuaries. I’m sure we can handle a couple of wild beasts. Right? I mean, how big could they be?”
Junn looked pale. “Don’t jinx us, Lor.”
“Enough chatter, let's go,” said Roon-Kotke, although Ember sensed his reluctance. “I don’t want to go into the trees either, but we’ve come this far and Lor’s idea is the only one with promise. So prime your lances. As soon as you make it into the forest, keep going to the tower.”
“You sure about this, chief?” said Hannar-Ghan.
The Corporal nodded. He took a deep breath and readied himself.
He glanced up at the fortress.
Took another deep breath.
Blew it out.
Eyes focused on the forest.
Another deep breath...
“Uh, want me to go first?” Hannar-Ghan offered.
“If you would,” said Roon-Kotke quietly, his shoulders slumping.
The big caster sprinted off towards the trees, covering the no man’s land between the fortress wall and the forest edge in several long strides. He’d made it halfway when a glob of scorching Fura streaked down from above, missing him by a few paces, slamming into the dirt, hurling up a plume of hot earth and shattered stone. When the Sergeant got to the edge of the forest, he turned and loosed a Fura of his own. Ember watched it blaze towards the roof of the fortress.
“Go!” Hannar-Ghan hollered.
This time, Roon-Kotke ran. He made it to the forest as Hannar-Ghan’s lance spat another bolt of oconic fire skywards.
Junn-Kri was next to go. He got a third of the way across, before a Fura bolt thwumped into the ground in front of him, detonating in a fountain of choking dirt. The force of the impact threw the boy backwards and he landed on his back with an audible ‘oof’, armour plates rattling.
Ember dashed out, grabbed Junn by the shoulders and dragged him back towards the relative safety of the fortress wall.
“You alright, kid?” he asked.
“What?” said Junn, shaking his head. The boy had some cuts on his face, but he looked unharmed.
Ember patted the young caster on the shoulder and looked up at the fortress, frowning. “Our friends up there are certainly persistent. Let’s give it a moment, shall we?”
“What?” said Junn again, rubbing his ears.
Another Fura round smacked into the ground near the forest edge, causing Hannar-Ghan and Roon-Kotke to retreat into the gloom of the trees.
“How are we going to get across now?” Lor-Qui asked.
“I might just have an idea about that,” said Ember. He pulled off his helmet and started to remove his legion jacket. “Got any Ocara left?”
***
“Keep running,” Ember shouted. “Don’t stop.”
He hurried through the trees after Lor-Qui and Junn-Kri, pushing past thorny twigs, resisting the temptation to hack away at branches with his sword, lest he alert whatever still growled and howled in the forest. They had enough problems. If he needed a reminder, a Fura burst in the thick branches of a tree a few paces behind him. A deafening crack. A wave of heat. A bloom of burning leaves and sizzling splinters.
“They know we’ve fooled them!” he yelled. “Run faster!”
A broken branch scratched him across the arm as he emerged into a small clearing. The tower he’d seen earlier stood in the centre. A tall stone construction, tapering from a wide circular base up to a narrower turret. Like a cone with the top sliced off. He saw Roon-Kotke and Hannar-Ghan next to a small metal door. A closed door. A locked door. Why was it still locked? The Sergeant should literally have worked his lockpicking magic by now.
“What's wrong?” he said as he reached them.
Hannar-Ghan took a few steps back and charged the door with his shoulder. He bounced off. “Door's stuck. Or reinforced somehow.”
“What happened to you?” the Corporal asked, looking Ember up and down. “Where’s your jacket? Your helmet?”
“One of Lor’s Ocara is currently wearing them,” Ember said. “And we sent that running in the opposite direction. It proved a handy distraction so we could reach the trees. Although the ruse didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.”
“Are those claw marks on the door?” asked a breathless Lor, pointing at a series of long, ragged scratches in the metal.
Roon-Kotke ignored him. “Lor, we need another Snapper. Quickly now.”
“Yessir.” Lor-Qui rummaged in his pack and drew out a Snap Can, an oconic canister the size of a tankard. He tossed it to Hannar-Ghan.
“It won't work,” grumbled the big caster as he caught it.
“It’s not a suggestion, Sergeant. Try another can. This thing might have a layered locking mechanism.”
Hannar-Ghan sighed and positioned the Snap Can over the door’s lock. A low growl sounded behind them, coming from the forest.
Lor backed up against the wall of the tower. “Uh, about those claw marks…”
Lor-Qui had a point. The scratches on the door didn’t look like they’d been made by a few wolves. Or a big cat.
Roon-Kotke tapped Hannar-Ghan on the shoulder. “Work faster. Something’s watching us from the trees.”
“Don’t rush me, chief. The binding needs to be activated in just the right place or it won’t work.”
“I’m not rushing you.” Roon-Kotke opened a chamber on his lance. “Whatever is out there watching us should be rushing you.”
Another growl. Then a snarl, overlapped by a spine-chilling roar.
Junn-Kri stepped forward, his own lance levelled at the forest edge. “Whatever it is, there’s more than one of them.”
“Should I cast a Wall?” asked Lor-Qui, his voice shaking. “The claw marks on this door suggest we’re up against something remarkably strong. And quite sizable. Wi
th claws that must be strong as steel. Look at the spacing between the gouges. That suggests a hand — or paw size — three, maybe four times bigger than ours!”
Roon-Kotke looked to Ember, who shook his head.
“No Wall. Not yet. Let’s not limit our field of fire, or waste our oca until we know exactly what we’re dealing with here.” The Corporal stepped forward, waving the rest of them to follow his lead. “Defensive positions. Everybody line up. Let’s give the Sergeant room to work. Han? How’s that door coming?”
Hannah-Ghan mumbled something Ember couldn’t hear.
In front of them, the trees rustled. The growling reached a cacophonous roar that seemed to be coming from all around them.
“That doesn’t sound like a few wild beasts.”
“Hold your fire... They might be more scared of us. After all, we’re trespassing on their land. If we stay calm and—”
A spear the size of a tree trunk arrowed out of the forest. It missed Junn by little more than two paces, slamming into the side of the tower. Hells, thought Ember. It wasn’t just the size of a tree trunk, the spear was a tree trunk, one end crudely whittled to a deadly point.
“Gods!”
He brought his lance to bear, but dropped it as a rock zipped out of the forest, striking him on the arm. It was followed by another missile, then another and another, a barrage that forced Ember to scramble back for cover.
“Han!” Roon-Kotke shouted over his shoulder. “We need that door open!”
Lor-Qui returned fire, a Fura bolt streaking into the forest, where it exploded with a dull whump.
“Any time now, Han!” yelled Roon-Kotke.
“I’m…” Hannar-Ghan banged his fist on the door. “Agh, screw it!”
Ember heard the sound of a click and the sigh of oca.
“What are you—”
Boom. A concussive blast. Groaning metal. Hot air.
Ember staggered, his vision swam, ears ringing.
Hannar-Ghan's voice, muffled, somehow impossibly distant.
Junn-Kri on his knees, struggling to his feet.
Lor-Qui waving, blood on his face.
Ember felt someone grab him by the shoulder. Pulling him backwards. Heard shouts. Words he couldn’t quite make out. Then the sight of something emerging from the forest. Something massive, standing tall on legs thick as barrels. Perhaps twice as tall as any of them, covered in short grey fur, two curved fangs like ancient scimitars, orange eyes staring at him, burning with hatred.
22. SCARLET LANCERS
STONE LAY SPRAWLED ON the cobbles, teeth gritted, more in anger than in pain. But not by much. Every breath hurt, every tiny movement stung. He resolved there and then to get even with Dak-Trur and his lackeys if it was the last thing he ever did. The bully had made it onto his list. That now read:
Settle the debt.
Free his mother.
Repay Mistress Yali for her kindness.
Kill the warden.
Buy the biggest sugar-dusted, lemon cream-filled chocolate roll he could afford.
Punch Dak-Trur in the face (repeatedly) and get his money back, all eighteen crowns, one half-crown and four pennies of it.
He groaned again, letting out a long breath. Getting his revenge on Dak was easier said than done. Ditto killing Warden Fowley. They were daydreams. Far-fetched tasks way beyond the meagre talents of a nine year-old boy. Especially one who had no real talents to speak of bar an eye for spotting penny-treasures in the mud. He needed to learn how to fight; needed to find someone who would teach him.
But who?
A man’s face loomed over him, half-hidden by a metal helmet.
“You alright, lad?” The man stuck out a red-sleeved arm. “Here, let me help you up. Nice and easy…”
Stone took the man's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Fresh waves of pain coursed through him. “Thanks,” he managed to mumble, before his legs wobbled and he sank back down again.
The man caught him under the arm. A big fella. Strong grip. Stone noticed that his rescuer was a caster — a young soldier, hair the colour of straw, clad in the bright scarlet of a Mulai legion. Stone didn’t know which one. The man had a concerned look on his face. Or was it suspicion? Stone had never been good at reading people. The Mulai either felt sorry for him or he was about to arrest him.
“Careful now, lad,” the caster said, gripping him firmly, hauling him back up. “You've taken a bit of a beating. So give yourself a moment. Your strength will return. Where are you hurt?”
“Everywhere,” Stone moaned. His body was one gargantuan ache, dull and heavy. It still hurt whenever he breathed. Maybe that meant his ribs were cracked? Or his lungs were punctured? Or his heart was about to give out? Stone held his free hand to his chest, hoping the accelerated rhythm he could feel wasn’t one final pulsing stampede before his heart suddenly seized and stopped.
“Were you robbed?” asked the caster.
“Huh?” said Stone, still preoccupied with the pain in his chest.
“Robbed. I said, did you get robbed?”
Stone nodded. Even that hurt. “They took my money,” he whined.
The Mulai tutted. “That’s tough luck, lad. ‘Fraid me and my partner can’t leave our posts. Otherwise I'd take you down the Station House to file a report with the Justices. Did you get a good look at who jumped you?”
A report. Yes. That was a fine idea. He could set the cuffers on Dak and his thick-headed cronies. Get ‘em arrested for assault and theft. That sounded good. Except… Except that doing so might make matters worse. Dak would deny any involvement. Cast him as a gutter-boy, little better than a beggar, out to make a quick crown or two at his expense. When it came right down to it, the cuffers wouldn’t believe the word of a scrapper over one of the Rook’s boys. No… Ratting out Dak-Trur would just stoke his anger, spur the bully to come after him again.
“Didn’t see anything,” Stone lied, sighing heavily. “They grabbed me from behind. Pushed me over. Lifted my purse before I knew what happened.”
“I hope you didn’t lose too much.”
Stone held his side. His ribs throbbed. “A few pennies,” he said with a grimace. “That was all.”
“That’s a shame. Don’t look like you’ve got much, so here…” The caster fished into his pocket and held out a penny. “Have this. I should have got to you quicker. And maybe if I had, you wouldn’t have lost all your money… Go on, take it. Least I can do.”
Kindness from a Mulai. Stone almost laughed. A penny for occupying his nation after an unjust Annexation. A penny for ruining his life and turfing him and his mother out onto the streets. A single, bloody penny.
But still a penny.
“Thanks,” Stone said, taking the coin and forcing a smile. His losses were now eighteen crowns, one half-crown and three pennies.
“Can you stand on your own?” the Mulai asked.
“I think so.”
“Good lad.” The caster patted him on the shoulder. “You’re stronger than you look. But you’ll hurt like Hells for a day or two. Get yourself one of those tonic wines they sell at the druggists on the Blood Road. It’ll go some way to taking the edge off.”
“Vellar!” The other Mulai shouted across the square. He didn’t sound pleased. “Stop mothering that boy and get your arse back over here!”
“Not the Soothing Syrup, mind,” said Vellar, glancing over his shoulder towards the crowd still gathered outside the remains of number twelve. “That stuff is useless. I’ve heard it’s just river water and oil. No, Ral’s Tonic Wine is the one you want. Get yourself to a place called Doo’s. A druggist on Marque Street, down by the Temple. All painted in red. You can’t miss it. Talk to Doo himself. Tell him Caster Vellar of the Scarlet Lancers sent you. He'll see you right…”
“Thanks,” Stone said, genuinely taken aback by the Mulai’s gesture.
“No worries.” Vellar gave him a wink. “We’re not all bad, you know.”
No, thought Stone. Not
all of you.
“You going to be alright, lad?”
Stone smiled. “I’ll survive.”
“Don’t forget your hat,” the Mulai said, pointing at Mila’s cap where it lay on the cobbles. “And listen, if you'd like to make some serious coin, keep your eyes peeled for a lass in a long black coat and black trews. She’s wounded right here…” Vellar tapped at his right hip. “We thought she might be hiding in the house over there, but no such luck. There's a reward if you have information that leads to her capture. Four hundred crowns, I believe.”
Four hundred? The breath caught in Stone’s throat.
He’d suspected that Mila was trouble.
Now he knew exactly how much.
“Who is she?” Stone called out, as the Mulai caster walked away.
Vellar halted and turned back to face him. “Some Yafai bitch.” The Mulai almost spat the words. “Don’t know her name. Don’t need to. She’s a terrorist. Enemy of the Empire. Blew up a tea house on Gonjan today. Scores injured. Sixteen gone to the After. Men, women and children. Casters too, the gods rest their souls. One was a friend of mine.”
“Vellar!” hollered the other Mulai.
The Mulai huffed. “Got to go, lad. Duty calls. Look after yourself. Watch your back. And remember what I said about that tonic wine… It’ll do you the world of good.” He turned to go again, but stopped and turned back. “And should you come across that Yafai, let me know. I’ll split the four hundred with you. Whatever you do, don’t approach her. Don’t talk to her. She’s dangerous. A trickster. Say anything to get what she wants… Likely kill you first chance she gets…”
23. NATURE GONE WILD
ROON-KOTKE FUMED. “You blew the bloody door off!”
Ember lay on the dirt floor inside the tower, a wooden ceiling above him, floorboards supported by thick, black-painted beams.
“You wanted to get in!” Hannar-Ghan shouted back. “We’re in.”
Ember levered himself up onto his elbows, head aching, back bruised, vision still slightly blurred. Roon-Kotke and Hannar-Ghan argued near the doorway, now a bright rectangle of dazzling daylight.
Once Called Thief Page 15
